A Real Connection
by sarapals with past50
Summary: A short follow-up to the recent "Girls Gone 2" episode-what we think really happened! No spoilers for the episode if you haven't seen it. As always, we love GSR and fluff! Rating might change.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: A short story adding a new ending to the recent "Girls 2" episode in season 15. No spoilers for those who have not seen it. _

**Chapter 1 **

Hours after the shooting, after the confrontation with a mad man, and after talking with Morgan in the locker room, Sara sat in the middle of her bed. Soft music played as her finger ran over a framed photograph that usually sat beside her bed.

She was tired, but not sleepy, not yet. She had changed her mind after Greg had met them in the hallway. He was cheerful yet asking sincerely how they were doing at the same time voicing satisfaction in the closure of the day's events. After Greg asked where they were going, Sara realized she had little interest in drinking tequila—or in returning to the hotel for the night.

And, it was obvious Morgan would enjoy Greg's company.

Sara, making a quick decision, reached into her bag and pulled out complimentary tickets—one to a concert and one to a party—from one of the conference venders. "Here," she said as she handed the tickets to Greg, "take these. Morgan already has hers and I just want to sleep—at home—my head on my pillow." Digging around in her purse again, she handed her hotel room key card to Greg. "Sleep in my room. Don't drink and drive. I'll come by tomorrow and pick up my things."

When both Morgan and Greg protested, Sara chuckled. "You two have more energy than I do right now—go—have fun." She made a twisted smile, saying, "How many times will you get to see Tom Jones?"

Greg laughed as he mimicked moves and sang a few lines from an old Tom Jones song, "It's not unusual to be loved by anyone…"

Morgan and Sara batted his shoulders before he could continue. For another minute, Greg protested taking the key card.

"Don't use my toothbrush, Greg. Sleep in the room. I'll see you both tomorrow." Sara left them standing in the hallway, making quick plans; two excited friends who needed a nudge, she thought. Maybe dancing to Tom Jones and drinking free tequila would turn the nudge into a push.

She had called D.B. telling him she wasn't staying at the conference hotel, but Greg was taking her room—and going with Morgan. A soft chuckle met her ears before he asked, "Playing at match-making, Sara?" She laughed. His voice echoed with fatigue, edged with weariness that had not been there months ago. Not for the first time, the idea flamed in her mind that D.B. was burning out.

After a long shower, Sara had crawled into her bed hoping music would relax her enough to sleep. Leaning back against several stacked pillows, keeping the framed photograph in her hand, Sara closed her eyes. It was unlikely she would sleep for hours so she let her thoughts drift back to the day's events.

Of all the things that had happened that day, her thoughts returned to the conversation at poolside. She could not believe she had actually said the words—"be with somebody who really gets you, who loves you for who you are"—to Morgan and Finn. She had responded to Finn's casual attitude about relationships with her own beliefs. It wasn't something she meant to say to anyone—ever—but early morning champagne and sunshine had loosened her tongue as well as thoughts that were never far below the surface even when she was working.

Her finger traced the two smiling faces in the photograph. There had always been a connection between them; the thought made her smile.

The first day she had met Dr. Gil Grissom, she had known there was something different about him. A quiet giggle escaped as she remembered his polite answer to her question while, at the same time, lifting one eyebrow. His blue shirt was open at the throat revealing triangle of his chest. His curling going-to-gray hair was stylishly combed yet gave an appearance of being fashionably disheveled. And as he had answered her second question, she realized he was—not movie star handsome—but an attractive man in surprising ways. Glancing around the room for the first time, she noticed most of the audience was female.

As she asked more questions, she realized the man was not only comfortable in his position as a speaker, he was almost flirting with her—in a room filled with one hundred people watching. A few others had asked questions, but his gaze kept returning to her and as the question-answer session closed, he had slowly disconnected from a dozen others and made his way to her.

"You have more questions," he had said as simply as one asks about weather. There was a glint of amusement in eyes that were as azure blue as the San Francisco sky on a cloudless day.

For the rest of the conference, they had found an amazing number of times to be in the same room, at the same table, crossed paths while visiting exhibits, and shared several meals; she had given him the "super-deluxe" tour of the bay area on his last day in the city. From that meeting, she knew she had made a friend, found a mentor, and had developed a slightly embarrassing crush on a man she had known for three days.

For two years, they had emailed each other, talked on the phone, and on two occasions had met face-to-face when he came to San Francisco. On one of those occasions, they had almost—almost moved their building friendship to romance.

She curled her legs and pulled bedcovers up to her chest; her eyes studied the photograph.

Their connection—that soul satisfying desire to be with each other—had been built from their first hour together. Her lips pressed in a tight line that gradually lifted at each corner of her mouth as she thought about their past.

Scrunching down in bed, pulling only one pillow from the stack for her head, she placed the photograph on another pillow so she could see it in the dim light of the bedroom.

Months ago, one night when she and D.B. had been working together, her supervisor had gently suggested she "do something" about the state of her marriage. When she made no response, he had continued:

"I've promised my wife we will move back to Seattle—not right now, but in the future—buy us a house overlooking the water in a neighborhood we've always loved. She—she's okay with that for now—and she flies up there once a month to play with our granddaughter."

Sara had kept working when he stopped talking until the silence grew uncomfortable. He said, "It won't go away, Sara. If you love him—and I believe you do—and, from the few times I've been around Grissom, I think he loves you. It's—it's something you need to do before it's too late."

At that point, she had stopped working and looked at him. "I don't know what to do," she whispered.

"Call him, Sara. Talk things out," her supervisor had gently said.

She smiled as her hand reached for the photo and brought it to her chest; she had taken his advice. Her eyes closed; she sighed and minutes later, she was asleep.

_A/N: This one is short-your comments and reviews will bring the next chapter! Thanks so much!_


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Thanks for reading. The second chapter of a short story!_

**A Real Connection**

**Chapter 2**

Glancing at his watch, Gil Grissom realized he had been working much longer than he thought. His head had been buried in the project spread out on his work table—hundreds of moths collected in the past month. He and a dozen others had spent hours searching for and following a flight path as the moths had traveled hundreds of miles. Pushing back from his table, he sighed, stretched his arms, and stood, bones creaking as he got off the stool.

"I need to move more," he murmured as he stretched again with arms over his head and bent at the waist to bring his hands near his toes. Doing a few more stretches, he decided it was time to close things down for the night.

He walked around the large room, shutting down some of the equipment and setting timers on some. The room was spacious; half of it was set up with lab tables and he used the other half for work space that was dedicated to his research project. As he walked around, he looked out of windows to an enclosed courtyard below the second floor. He could see several people, a few he recognized, sitting at a couple of tables and decided he would leave in a different direction to avoid getting trapped in a never-ending discussion.

Locking the door, he walked most of the way around the square building and then took a set of wide steps to the first floor. He heard voices—probably the cleaning crew—off to his left, so he turned right and headed out of the building by the nearest door. This route meant he would walk around half of the building before getting to the parking lot, but at least he escaped—and right now he was thinking he wanted to eat more than he wanted to hear about the latest administration 'crisis'.

The parking lot was half filled with cars; his was in the first row because he had arrived early in the morning which meant he had spent over eighteen hours in the building. It was not his usual routine; he had decided months ago that work would not overtake his life.

The night was warm so Grissom turned up the air in his vehicle knowing this simple act was a miracle of modern technology. In light traffic, he drove to his favorite café and lingered over his dinner, checking his phone for messages and finding none, which made it easy to eat slowly and observe those around him.

A young couple sat at a small table across from his booth; both texting, rarely looking at each other. He wondered if they were on a date. Several tables were taken up by singles—one or two were on their way to work while others were doing what he was doing—paying someone else do the cooking.

He finished his meal, left money on the table, and headed out. A few minutes later, he slowed, turned into a quiet neighborhood and made several turns before arriving at his destination.

As he turned into the driveway, he grunted, surprised at the car parked in the carport, which put him in a hurry for the first time in hours.

Quietly, opening the front door, he took off his shoes and walked through the living room and hallway to the bedroom. Seeing the covered figure in bed, he smiled, retraced his steps to the front door, locked it, went back to the bedroom, and being as quiet as possible, took clean clothes from a drawer, and headed down the hall again.

As he turned on the shower, he knew the purchase of this house, with its spaciousness and three bath rooms, had been a good decision. He smiled at the memory that came with that thought. Sara had fallen in love with the neighborhood and together they had spent months looking for the right house to make their home. As he stepped into the shower, his thoughts returned to a time when their marriage had almost fallen into that crevice of no return.

Warm water cascaded over his body as he remembered his lackadaisical and inconsiderate treatment of his wife and his marriage. He let other things become more important; his own frustrations had overwhelmed his feelings for his wife sending him into a self-imposed isolation. Yet, she never gave up on him and months after he had told her to file for divorce, which she did not do, and find another who could give her what she desired, she had called him with a simple message.

"When you are ready, come home, Gil. You are the one I want above all else. We'll work things out."

As he turned his face to the shower stream, he grinned. Sara had made the house into their home. He had returned a week after her call. She had taken time off from work and they had talked for hours, walked miles, climbed the hills at Red Rocks, and canoed the Colorado River.

It had been the most life affirming time of his life.

He had discovered that his wife, who he loved very much, wanted to know where he was and what he was doing on a regular basis. She had no problem with him being away from home for weeks at a time, but she wanted to hear that he was okay. Together, they decided not to dwell on the possible negative consequences of having a long distance marriage. She liked her job and having a home and because she loved him, what he was doing wasn't a burden on her which lifted a nearly constant worry off him—and resulted in a change.

Six months later, he had a new research position at the local university and he was home most of the time.

He stepped out of the shower and reached for a towel. For the simple reason that he and Sara slept at different times, they frequently used this bathroom instead of the one located adjacent to the master bedroom so he had a toothbrush and toiletries stowed in a drawer. Quickly, he shaved, dressed for bed, and headed back to the bedroom.

Making a quick detour, he went through the house turning off several lamps that Sara always left on when she was alone in the house. He knew the reason. As he reached for a lamp switch, his eyes fell on a photograph.

His fingers came back to the picture and he picked it up. In the soft light given by the lamp, he smiled and traced his fingers across the two smiling faces. He had carried a copy of the same photo with him in his travels around the world. A smile remained on his face as he returned it to its place, turned off the light, and, in darkness, made his way to the bedroom.

Sara was in the same place in bed; he knew she had planned to attend the conference and stay at the hotel, but after he had heard about the shootings, he should not have been surprised to find her at home. Carefully lifting covers, he crawled into bed.

Almost immediately, she turned. In a sleepy, husky voice, she said, "I'm glad you're home." Her arms reached out.

"I didn't want to wake you," Grissom said.

He heard the smile in her voice as she said, "I heard you come in."

Another second passed before her lips touched his.

_A/N: Of course, they are together! Did you expect otherwise? One more chapter-thanks for reading. We appreciate hearing from you!_


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Enjoy! We would appreciate hearing from you...it's all we_ ask!

**A Real Connection **

**Chapter 3**

"You've had a long day," Sara whispered as she pulled her husband into her arms.

Softly, he chuckled, saying, "I've had a long quiet day—unlike you. Are you okay?"

"Of course—I'm fine." She sighed, her breath warm against Grissom's chest. "Now, it seems everyone has a gun; every other person in the country seems to have an automatic assault weapon. I can't think about it, Gil, or I'll go crazy—er."

Wrapping his arms tightly around her, Grissom said, "You know you have options."

Sara kissed the exposed triangle of his chest. "I know—but I still like my work. I like the people I work with. And it's still a puzzle for me." Turning her face to his, Sara asked, "How are your moths?"

Chuckling again, he said, "All my moths are dead and never carry assault weapons." He turned, assuming his usual sleeping position on his back. Easily, his hold on Sara brought her along as he turned, tucking his arm around her back. With his movement, his shoulder became her pillow; her hand moved to the center of his chest.

"I'll sleep better now," she said.

Grissom's hand covered hers. "How was the conference—before all the shooting started?"

"Lots of new gadgets in the exhibits. Saw a former co-worker from San Francisco—she's crossed over to the dark side. She was one of the guest speakers and where the first shooter started—I—I sort of blew up at her after it was over." Making a small shrug, she continued. "And I drank champagne before noon by the pool." Sara laughed. "Was I ever that young and—and wild? People were jumping into the pool fully dressed—pretty inebriated before the opening session."

"No, honey," Grissom answered, not attempting to hide his laughter. "Not when I met you but this is a new environment today."

Sara shifted her leg so it rested on her husband's thigh—her normal sleeping position—as she snuggled close to his body. Her fingers gently moved over Grissom's chest for several minutes; she could feel his warm body relax against hers. She knew the time was coming when she would finally walk away from the work she had been doing for nearly twenty years. Most people did not stay that long in this kind of work.

"Can you sleep? You should have called me when you decided to come home."

"I knew you were working," Sara whispered. Her hand moved, bringing his fingers to her lips. After gently kissing two of his fingers, she continued, "and I knew you would be here when I woke up."

"I love sleeping with you, dear." Softly, he laughed again, saying, "We should do this more often." He snuggled against his wife; his breathing was restful.

Those were his last words before he drifted to sleep seconds later. Sara continued to move her fingers in a small circle on his chest, feeling his steady heart beat against the pads of her fingertips.

She was so thankful he had returned—not just to her, but into her life and to their home, and had finally accepted a standing offer of a research position at the university. And he was happy—she knew he was happy; she was happy—a state that had slipped away for a while.

They had gone through a tough time—deeply intimate issues that many couples face but few talked about publicly. When her husband had returned, he was still coping with health problems—nothing life threatening, but just as dire to a man married to a younger woman.

Sara's fingers continued the gentle massage as she remembered the first time either of them had mentioned "family"—Grissom had said "Let's have a couple of kids."

She had never thought she would have children—had always been very cautious about birth control—and then, big surprise, her husband suggested kids. They laughed for six months, having sex as often as possible, convinced that nine months later a little Grissom would be born. When nothing happened, she was the one who made an appointment with a fertility specialist. Weeks later, they had their answer—so surprising that her mouth had dropped open in shock at the results of a battery of tests. She—they should have suspected this when Grissom's testing was repeated for the third time.

Grissom had been sitting next to her, holding her hand; he had seen her face as the results registered. He was sterile—no possibility of fathering biological children.

Before the physician had finished reading the rest of the results, before he could say words to ease this news, Grissom had dropped Sara's hand and left the room. She found him in the parking lot, his head lowered against the car door.

His despondent appearance was one of sadness and disappointment as his eyes raised to meet hers. Softly, he said, "I didn't know—I had no idea."

She soothed and comforted and persuaded him to return to the physician's office, but there was little more that could be said, little to be done with the quietly given suggestions for possible routes for pregnancy.

Several weeks passed and she had watched as her husband silently pulled into himself; she remembered a time in the past when he had withdrawn from those around him—a time when he thought he would lose his hearing. A few weeks later, he had received a message from a forensic archaeology research group who studied mass graves, traveling all over the world to discover, dig, and analyze what had happened to the bodies.

Gil Grissom signed on. Two weeks later he was in Germany. Four months later, he traveled to the far eastern Russian port of Vladivostok where he stayed for eight months as Sara flew to exotic cities to meet him. He had been in Poland, Spain, and Peru uncovering bodies that dated back several hundred years or as recently as a decade.

Sara had realized the more she pleaded with him to come home, the more withdrawn he became. When he suggested she file for divorce, she had been shocked—and then angry—that he would propose such an action. She was still angry when she had blurted out that he was no longer her husband in front of her co-workers.

Slipping her hand to his neck, she gently caressed his chin with her thumb as he slept. How was it possible to convince someone you loved him without reservation—she had lain awake for hours with no idea of how to repair what seemed to be irreversibly broken. D.B.'s simple suggestion had been made out of concern for her, but in the end, it had worked.

Smiling, she traced her husband's jaw from chin to ear. Having their own children was not to be—she had decided this almost immediately upon hearing the suggestions made by the fertility specialist. They might pursue other options at some point, she thought, but not while she worked as a CSI. She and her husband would grow old together, beating the odds for many long-distance marriages, and understanding each other in ways unknown to many couples because of their experience.

Smiling at her thoughts, Sara knew she was happy—happier than she had been in years. Few who worked with her knew the complete story of her marriage. She had decided to quietly tell those closest to her about the return of their former supervisor and the man who was her husband. Twice in her work she had been almost killed—both perpetrators had used the man she loved in attempts to kill her. Hopefully, it would not happen again.

Now, her appearance at work was purposefully conveyed as a single woman in law enforcement. She did not wear her wedding ring, she did not talk about her life outside of work; she did not mention her husband. In the darkness, she smiled again thinking about the birthday party when her long-time co-workers had learned her husband had returned and was working in Vegas.

With that thought, she closed her eyes, tightly wrapped in the arms of the man she loved more than she loved life.

From her position in the middle of the bed, Sara thought she had slept for a few hours but the light shining in through the narrow opening of the blackout curtains told her it was far passed sunrise. Her nose wrinkled as she sniffed the smell of coffee in the air. There was a hint of another fragrance that caused her to smile.

Rolling over, she smiled. The source of the coffee was the cup held by her husband; the fragrance was the faint hint of his soap.

"Good morning," she whispered.

Grissom grinned, placed his cup on the bedside table, and closed his book. "Hey, sleepy-head." He scooted down so they were face to face. "I thought you might sleep until noon." He drew her into his arms.

Wanting to make things last as long as possible, his embrace started out slow and deliberate. A deep certainty flooded through him when he was with his wife. His passion heightened as her arms went around him; his thoughts briefly screamed: "You almost wasted this!"

It seemed to take forever to pull her shirt over her head and remove the stretchy pants she wore to sleep in. It took seconds for him to shed his.

He said, "You are beautiful."

Sara gave him a smile. "You make me feel beautiful."

As his fingers traced the ridges of her spine, she shivered. He kissed her, easing her onto her back, trapping one of her legs beneath his own. His thigh nestled against the apex of her thighs. The soft curves of her breasts, the feminine slope of her back and the rise of her butt made him ache. Her hand flattened against his back and it seemed to him that the heat radiated from her fingers to someplace deep inside him.

His thoughts were on her response as he touched her, seeking the hot, damp desire between her thighs, wanting to feel the full brilliance of her passion. She twisted and pressed against him, murmuring something inaudible near his ear.

Slowly, with excruciating care, she began her own affectionate exploration causing him to shudder.

Mutual desire gathered; the intimacy of the moment brought a desperate need. As he entered her, it was a moment of pain and exquisite pleasure mingled together unleashing a fire in both. Waves of ecstasy thundered, flowing as a raging river, self-control freed as they were engulfed in a torrent of passion. The currents in each enhanced and sustained the other.

"Sara," Grissom's voice was ragged yet filled with wonder. His mouth closed on hers and then his climax was upon him, eliciting a second, gentle wave of pleasure deep with her.

A while later, enjoying a rare morning of leisure, Grissom sat beside his wife on a porch swing Sara had placed on the patio while he had been away. Reaching out, he took her hand in his and threaded her fingers through his.

Quietly, they sat side-by-side for several quiet minutes. Finally, Sara spoke. "You are right when you said I had other options. I'm beginning to think more about those options."

Pulling her hand to his lips, he said, "You will always have me, dear."

Softly, she laughed.

Deciding this was a good time, he said, "You know I've always had difficulty putting into words what you mean to me—I want you to know that I need you in ways I can never explain." His fingers caressed hers for a moment before he continued, "The Costa Rica group has contacted me about returning—both of us—and monkeys don't carry assault weapons."

Sara leaned back, the morning sun touching her face, and laughed. "Costa Rica—I think I'd like that, Gil."

A/N: _T.S. Eliot once said "to make an end is to make a beginning"...thank you for reading. Thank you to those who send a comment or a review. We enjoy writing Sara and Grissom, so let us hear from you if you enjoy reading about our favorite CSI couple. Happy holidays, everyone! _


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